Frigid Immortals
by LadyJenwen84
Summary: The coldest days of the Realm Eternal are fraught with pain and deceit-the beginning of the end of the second son of Asgard, Loki God of Mischief, and the Vanir goddess who will walk through Hel to bring him home. This is a story of love, joy, grief, despair, merciless pain, madness and murder-a journey with the dark prince of Asgard and his ever faithful Sigyn.
1. We Met In Winter

Chapter 1

The Midgardian equivalent of winter in Asgard was something to behold. It wasn't truly cold—not by human standards. The temperature might drop to just below fifty at night and the day would perhaps ascend to sixty. Yet snow would form in the shimmering purple and pink clouds above and drop slowly to the ground in a powdery soft layer, blanketing the entire golden city in a frothy white blanket. The people would clad themselves in warm fur and drink hot fermented concoctions. It was during a particularly cold 'winter'—the temperature hovering around forty throughout the day and falling below true freezing once dark settled—that the second son of the king and queen found himself desiring the ladies of the court in the ways a man does rather than finding them appalling as a boy does. His older brother had known many women by that point having reached manhood two 'winters' prior. It was frowned upon, mostly by their mother—their intimate couplings with the opposite sex. But they received no more punishment from their parents than searing glares and tsking tongues. The young men disregarded the grumblings. Fully grown and virtuous no more, the brothers swapped stories of their lady loves and continued in their conquests.

"Brother!" The elder son, Prince Thor, roared as he spotted his younger sibling in the queen's garden manhandling a golden-haired girl, perhaps a few years his junior. Thor had been roaming the aged bronze halls of the palace, passing the time, reduced to boredom, whilst his warrior friends were in the training grounds. His reputation for usurping a fight, for brandishing his famed weapon—the mighty hammer Mjolnir—and leaving no room for the other soldiers to partake in the battle as he slayed the enemy, had him suspended from training for a week. His female friend and sister in arms, Sif, had warned him of his arrogance and how it would gain him such a suspension. Yet he had not heeded her words and found himself spending the majority of his time searching out his brother who trained more with hefty books than with metal weaponry. The younger of the two was known for his mischievous ways and the trickery amused Thor to no end, despite his claiming to be above it. Watching his brother pull pranks was the best medicine for a week of drollery without practiced battles.

He pulled his blood red cloak tighter around his broad intimidating frame as a cold wind shot through the pillared hall. His long thick blond waves whipped around his bearded face, piercing aqua eyes shutting hastily to avoid the burning sensation from the frozen gust. The torches were nearly snuffed out from the effect and he rubbed his hands together and blew his hot breath into them. Mjolnir swung at his belt, never leaving his side. He favored his royal blue and silver breast plate and heavy armor over the crimson tunic, navy leather jacket, breeches, and black boots that he was currently sporting, but the armor was rather pointless if he wasn't joining the others in their fake fight. He scowled at the thought of surviving a week doing anything other than spending the daylight hours slamming fists and showing the Asgardian army just how mighty he truly was. The sound of girlish giggling and squeals of delight from the icy garden a story below the open balcony had caught his attention and, curiosity taking over, he'd stepped as gingerly as was possible in his huge muscled body, to the ledge and peered over, not entirely intending voyeurism.

He frowned at the sight of his brother wrapped up in the arms of the maiden. They were caught up in a passionate kiss. His hands roamed underneath her thick yellow cloak while she pulled at his fur covered shoulders and straight raven locks. He was bent over her small frame. Their height difference was almost comical to Thor. His brother's sinewy body looked as though it would break from the stretch down and she was on her tip toes, standing on his boots craning her neck to reach his mouth.

The second prince of Asgard was not as tall as Thor but his six foot two body still towered over many of the citizens. His frame was strong but much leaner than that of the blond warrior whose bulging muscles caused most young maidens to blush deep scarlet and all but beg to be bedded. The younger was acclaimed, albeit in a rather negative manner, as a master sorcerer and his intellect was far beyond that of their peers. Like Thor, he was also a fully capable fighter, able to hold his own in any battle, and both brothers had already seen their fair share of fights, often with each other as is typical with siblings. However, rather than throwing himself into the middle of the fight and swinging punches and risking deadly blows to himself, the second son preferred his throwing knives or a small silver dagger. His aim was impeccable—every shot landing with precision, mortally wounding his target. He moved with grace, twisting and contorting his body with the physical prowess of a cat, rather than roaring and stomping and head-butting as a bear would. His magic had proven useful many times, casting illusions of himself and confusing his adversaries. He was lithe, intimidating, and not to be contended with but it was never enough to best Thor. The golden prince was the warrior. The dark prince was the trickster. The warrior would always win, in the end, and the darker son was supremely envious for it.

"Brother!" Thor called again and was ignored—_again_. At the sound of Thor's booming voice, the girl made to pull away from his brother, but the younger son pulled her back against his taut frame, shrouding her in his black leather and fur shouldered coat.

Thor's deep growl rang in his ears. "_Loki_! Have you gone deaf, brother?!"

Loki released the girl and with a wink and charming smile, he kissed her hand and waved her off. She bowed her head sheepishly, shot Thor a glare, and sauntered away. The sight of the womanly curves on the girl caused Thor's groin to ache and he gripped the balcony railing forcefully, enough to cause tiny bits of stone to crumble away beneath his fingers. How Loki could manage to capture the gaze of the fair maiden rather than him was appalling. Loki tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, hair ruffling with the icy breeze, as he watched her walk away and then spun on his heel to face Thor, a smirk spreading on his handsome face. His skin tone was very fair—pale even, some would say—and made more so by the contrast to his black shoulder-length hair. His cheekbones were sharp and high and his jaw was just as sharp and angular—not classically squared like Thor's—and connected to a long gracefully veined throat. His eyes were a strange light green and his nose was straight and thin. His lips were thin as well. Everything about him was _thin_, but sharp, and strong. Despite his being the younger prince, doomed to be only an advisor to his brother and never a king, his grace and his charm and his mischievous smile made many a female swoon in his presence and Thor, in all his pride, hated him for it. Thor was golden and masculine, classically good-looking, and strong enough to break a tree in half. He would be the king. Why would any woman prefer his _skinny_ brother?

"Ah, Thor! I could not hear you over the sound of my lady's pounding heart and utterly devastating moans of pleasure. Forgive me." Smirk still displayed across his face, he bowed his head but kept his eyes on his brother.

"Is that so? She was so much louder in my chambers last night!" Thor laughed and rocked his hips while holding an imaginary pair of hips in front of his groin. He leaned his head back and his mouth went slack in a mock climax.

Loki scoffed. He knew it was a lie—he recognized lies from everyone—but he knew it furthermore because the girl had only eyes for him and she'd been _very_ vocal about it while removing his breeches in _his_ chambers the night before. There had been no faking on her part, either. No woman faked it with him. The rapid convulsing around him was proof of that. He may not have been the warrior prince like his brother, but no woman wanted a warrior in bed. They wanted a pair of narrow hips and long fingers and a talented tongue—not some witless oaf with a big hammer to pound them with.

"How _odd_! You must be thinking of one of your hideous over-stuffed _whores_. For that fair maiden was in _my_ bed last night—_all_ night. And the only sound I recall ripping from her lungs was _my_ _name_—_over_ and _over_." His deep velvety voice turned to a hiss and his eyes narrowed. He turned away from his brother and looked at the horizon. The bifrost shimmered like a prizm, even in the oddly grey clouds. He heard Thor's heavy footsteps back away from the ledge. The cold felt natural to him, and he closed his eyes as a pleasurably icy gust tossed his hair about his neck. He'd always found Asgard's constant warmth suffocating. It never seemed to bother anyone else. The bright gleaming golden city was always blooming with flowers and exotic plant life because of the pleasant—to most—seventy degree weather. A warm breeze always floated through the air and despite the warm leather attire and long dresses which seemed to cause a sheen of sweat on most everyone, they seemed contented with it—to _relish_ in it. It confounded him. The heat was stifling to him, so much so that he longed to shed his outer layers of attire and strip to only his green linen tunic and loose, also linen, undershorts. He imagined it would be quite fun to watch the faces of the women who caught sight of him in nothing but his underclothes, well aware of the effect he had on them even with his full armor on. Footsteps behind him took him from his musings.

"I only _jest_, brother." Thor had softened his tone from their short spat.

"Yes, I'm well aware of your comic prowess." Loki continued to stare at the cosmos. Bitter envy aside, he loved his brother. Love and hate being two sides of the same coin, he couldn't deny his seething rage, though. He sighed loudly and his proud posture slumped.

"Cease your brooding, Loki. I am _painfully_ bored. Is it not your greatest desire to entertain me in my doldrums?" His exaggerated arrogance managed to pull a low chuckle from Loki, who raised his head to look at the golden warrior.

"Thor, as much as your _painful_ boredom injures me to the very core of my being, I'm afraid I've been called to the training ground this evening. It seems that Father wants to spare you from my corruption. Do accept my most regretful and sincere apologies." He bowed from the hip and swept himself back to his original proud posture with theatrics akin to a circus performer, backed away with a mocked frown and furrowed brow and clasped hands, and finally left Thor standing in the frosty garden. _Dammit_, _Loki_, he thought to himself before he walked with heavy steps back into the warmth of the palace to fetch something to eat from the kitchen—food or a servant girl, it mattered not which.

…

Loki strolled to his chambers to change into his armor. He didn't care to train with Thor's friends. Sif had been given the title Goddess of War by the Allfather two seasons ago and had become ruthlessly obnoxious with arrogance since. Her double bladed sword was impressive and intimidating to the other soldiers. All Loki saw when he watched her fight was the female version of his big brother—beautiful, favored, loved by all, and positively _stupid_. Their skills were limited to fighting and binge drinking and slurring poorly thought out insults during both. Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral were Thor's other idiotic friends—the Warriors Three as they were called by the citizens of Asgard. Famous for their many victories in battle, they, along with Sif, created a bloodthirsty and intellectually stunted foursome. Yes, Fandral's abilities with his sword had not been exaggerated. It was like watching a skilled artisan with his craft when Fandral fought hand to hand. And, yes, Volstagg and his axe could obliterate anything and everything in all the nine realms. Certainly, Hogun with his spiked mace had slaughtered countless enemies, outnumbered though he had been. But they seemed to think that each and every argument could and should only be won by who had the bigger weapon. Everything was a pissing contest to them. Loki hated breathing the same air that they did, much less being forced to train with them.

"Look!" Volstagg's thick voice echoed so that all the soldiers turned to see. He pointed at Loki as he descended the stone steps from the upper level to the training grounds. "_Silvertongue_ has come for a fight! Perhaps he brought his books to fight with!" The Warriors Three and Sif laughed boisterously, but the rest of the men resumed their fighting. It was well-known that Loki had a dangerous temper and with a flick of his wrist, his sorcery was capable of producing as much and more pain than the four _idiotic_ warriors' weapons combined. The only reason Thor's friends hadn't been killed at his hand was because they _were_ Thor's friends. He didn't want to face off with Mjolnir and he truly didn't want to cause Thor that much grief. They imagined Loki to be weak because his armor didn't strain over his biceps the way Thor's did. But as much as their insults bothered him, in a way, he knew that their blindness to his talents was an advantage for him, so he didn't bother much with retaliation.

But Loki was in no mood for it today. He launched a dagger at Volstagg's nearly seven foot body and it sliced through the thin skin of his cheek. Dark crimson blood streamed out of the wound and Volstagg looked genuinely stunned as he touched his face and drew his hand away, fingers smeared with the red fluid.

"_Excellent_ shot, Loki!" Álfar, the head trainer, shouted over the clanking of enchanted blades.

He smirked at the faces of his brother's favored and grabbed a sword. He may have preferred throwing knives and daggers, but he was a talented swordsman, no less. He gritted his teeth as he was paired with a red-haired soldier who was built like Thor. His eyes lit up and he smiled menacingly at the man who brandished a shield and sword before him. The man was strong—his slices smashed against Loki's sword with immense force, but he was slow on his feet. In his frustration with being paired with a _slow_ partner, Loki threw his sword to the ground and pulled a dagger from inside his jacket at his waist, and plowed the man in the stomach with a powerful front kick. The soldier fell to the ground covering his torso with the thick metal shield. Loki swung the dagger and it struck the palm of the man's hand and planted it firmly into the ground. The redhead cried out in pain, his sword dropping when the dagger sliced into his hand. Loki kicked the long shiny blade away and straddled him with a hand grasped tightly around the man's bearded throat. At the sound of the lunge and the feel of a puff of air behind him, he withdrew another dagger and, twisting his entire torso backward, he slung the blade into the shoulder of the soldier who'd come to save the _pathetic_ excuse for a soldier beneath him.

Both men clawed at the knives he'd impaled them with and he laughed with glee. He hadn't meant to resort to _true_ violence. Training didn't usually involve gaping wounds, but Volstagg's comment combined with his earlier encounter with Thor and his lust-filled veins as of late, had him _craving_ blood. Álfar approached him with reserve as the training continued.

"Loki," he cleared his throat as Loki stood and swiped his hair out of his still clean but sweat stained face, "you are spot on with your dagger skills. No doubt. Positively _lethal_. I wonder if you should even bother with the sword. It seems completely unnecessary. You disarmed the target and stunted the second without even seeing him. It's…_impressive_, to say the least."

Loki glared at the instructor. Why he desired to twist his arm until it broke, he knew not. He needed to calm down. The man was giving him a _compliment_ for Valhalla's sake. "_I know_." Loki smirked at Sif who had ceased fighting when he'd injured the two men and watched him carefully with steely eyes.

"However, I see that tonight you are perhaps a bit more war hungry than usual. We are only _training_, Loki. We do not seek to truly injure our fellow countryman—our brothers in arms. Should you take your leave? I never understand the king sending you here anyway. You are the most precise fighter in all of Asgard and yet you practice a quarter of the time." Álfar was no longer looking at Loki but at the sky.

"I am _gravely_ sorry, Instructor Álfar. I fear I may have lost my composure due to an earlier conflict. I believe it _is_ best that I take my leave." Sarcasm dripped from his voice as he slightly inclined his head to the head trainer who, in turn, bowed his head and covered his heart with his right fist.

"Prince Loki."

Loki winked at Sif and kissed the air in her direction. He smirked as he gracefully ascended the stairs taking three steps at a time.

…

"What does Freya call for?" The golden queen of Asgard opened her arms wide and stepped down the stairs of the throne room. She met her sister halfway down the hall and embraced her.

"Frigga, dearest!" The goddesses held each other as though they had not seen the other for an age. Freya, the Goddess of Fertility, was as fair and golden as Queen Frigga but resided in Vanaheim with her nine daughters and did not call often.

"_Ladies_, visit later. Freya, state your business with Asgard." Odin stood from the throne and stepped down a few stairs.

The sisters approached him and Frigga looked to her sons who stood on either side of Odin—Thor on his right, Loki to his left. Thor displayed a huge smile at the young woman who trailed behind his mother and aunt. Loki lifted his chin and looked on curiously.

"Greetings, Allfather! Princes Thor and Loki! My goodness how you've grown into such _handsome_ young men! You take after your father. Lovely lovely boys. My my." Freya had a way of flattering men of all ages, naturally. Goddess of Fertility and thusly sex, she was.

Frigga cleared her throat and rolled her eyes as she returned to her place behind her husband. Thor beamed and Loki sighed and gave a roll of his own eyes, barely visible. An exasperated huff came from the young woman behind Freya. At the sound of annoyance behind her, Freya twisted her head on her shoulders and glared at the dark haired young woman. Her piercing blue eyed stare caused the younger female to lower her gaze and shrink into herself.

"Freya, I say again, state your business. Flattery is just that and it has no place in this court." Odin stood taller, peering at her out of his one good eye, the other—long lost during a great war with Jotenheim many centuries ago—covered with a golden metal patch.

Freya smirked at the king but bowed with her hands palm up to him. "_Allfather_, I come to make a formal request to Queen Frigga concerning the studies of my youngest." She gestured to the young woman who still stood behind her to come forward. "Sigyn, Lady of Vanaheim."

Hearing her name spoken, Sigyn stepped forward and gave a low graceful curtsey. "_My king_."

Thor could barely contain himself. This woman was no Asgardian—she was a strange and exotic combination of Asgard and Vanaheim but certainly favored her Vanir ancestry. She was not as tall as an Asgardian woman—perhaps five foot four or five foot six, he couldn't accurately assess—with long sleek shiny black hair that hung in waves just below her shoulder blades. Her frame was small with little wrists and hands—nails painted black—which were clasped in front of her. Her face was symmetrical and heart shaped with a pointed chin and grey green eyes framed by long black lashes. She held a stoic expression, relaxed despite standing before the throne. Her skin was not golden like her mother's, but very fair—not unlike Loki's.

The dress she wore was the color of charcoal and was slightly iridescent—turning black as she shifted her stance. It was cut like a Vanir dress—the bodice, which was tied with a black sash, sported a lower waistline below the belly button as opposed to where the natural waist would be on an Æsir woman's gown and clung to her narrow hips before flaring out with the black fabric trailing behind her. The sleeves were long, black, sheer, and wrapped tightly around her toned arms. The collar wrapped high around the nape of her neck but descended into a sharp and very low v just below the line of her breasts which were not large and did not show cleavage, but were quite appealing nonetheless. Thor started when he realized she was staring back at him, not kindly. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and her lips pursed, hollowing her cheekbones before she returned her attention to Odin.

Loki smirked at the glare she aimed in his brother's direction. He'd certainly noticed her beauty as well, but was well-practiced at hiding his emotions. He eyed her through narrow slits of eyes, taking in her entire form, petite but strong—just the right amount of femininity. Who was this Sigyn of Vanaheim and what had brought her to Asgard? His interest piqued, he tilted his head to the side and spread his legs slightly wider until there was about a foot and a half between them—a powerful and intimidating stance. One corner of his mouth pulled up when the dark beauty turned her gaze toward him at the movement. Odin was talking, but he couldn't hear the words. He was too busy listening to her thoughts.

_That's more like it_. The words slithered across her mind as she looked him up and down. _He is the younger son—the sorcerer—Silvertongue, they call him_. She reached a hand to the hair tumbling around the left side of her face and moved it behind her ear. _He has a rather intense stare, doesn't he? I've never seen such green eyes. What color are they—are they green?—or grey? Grey-green? Stop it, Sigyn! Focus, girl! The Allfather is speaking to you! Do you want to lose your head?_

He pursed his lips as she moved her eyes from his boots slowly up his long legs. Her gaze hovered for a moment longer than necessary at the top of them—a blush spreading across her pretty cheeks at the sight of the slight bulge. She continued her ascent to his narrow masculine hips, up to the taut lean waist that angled out into his ribs and broad shoulders creating a perfect _v_. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth curved up, barely visible, and her right eyebrow rose as she followed the collar of his jacket which opened and exposed his pale throat. She lingered over the sight of his neck, as though she were a predator calculating the most vulnerable section to rip with her teeth—the white of them showing slightly as her lips parted and curled. Her green eyes finally rose and widened as she marveled at the younger prince's face.

_Beautiful_. It was her final thought before she seemed to wake from hypnosis and returned her eyes to Odin. They continued to flick back to Loki though and he licked his lips—not in a suggestive or perverse manner. To her, it would seem as though he were correcting chapped lips—not imagining her in a dark green chamber, the only sounds being the crackling fire and heavy breathing.

"Daughter, have you gone _deaf_?" Freya leaned down to Sigyn and whispered in her ear. The look in her eyes could have stopped Thor midflight, Mjolnir falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

Sigyn's eyes widened, blinking rapidly, and she shook her head as though trying to rid her mind of an unpleasant thought. "Forgive me, Mother, my Queen, Allfather—it would seem my journey took a toll on my head. I beg of you, what was asked of me?" She furrowed her brow and squeezed the bridge of her nose before letting out a heavy sigh.

Thor scoffed. "The Bifrost is rather body blowing, isn't it, Lady Sigyn? The Vanir are not known for their strong stomachs—or _minds_."

Loki's eyes widened substantially. It wasn't often that Thor threw insults, less so when the object of said insults was something _pretty_. He opened his mouth but closed it and looked at Sigyn who looked taken aback. She was not under the impression that Thor was anything less than a welcoming host. She blew out a long breath, chest heaving, and closed her eyes, jaw clenched. It was as though she was attempting to control a knee jerk reaction—a treacherous word aimed at the golden son or a hidden dagger spun artfully in his direction. Her tiny hands squeezed into tight fists at her sides as Loki noticed a shift in the air. It was thick and heavy and smelled of woodsmoke and ashes. She flared her nostrils and stood taller but lowered her head. Loki thought—was he _imagining_ it?—that a faint black swirling mass, similar to smoke billowing up from the hottest flames, pooled around the hem of her dress. Just as soon as he saw it, it disappeared and she uncurled her fists and sighed in relief.

Freya's eyes had blown wide in poorly veiled fear and she stared at her daughter.

"I asked when you wished to start your studies with my queen!" Odin's voice roared and echoed in the great hall, the flames in the sconces flickering with the sound.

"Immediately, my King." Sigyn's voice was low and rather deep but feminine and silky smooth. Her lips seemed to wrap around the words, eloquently forcing the syllables out.

Odin looked to Frigga, who simply nodded and smiled at the daring young Vanir. "I will appoint a handmaiden to assist you during your stay here. The guest quarters are already prepared. The guards will escort you and see that your belongings are brought there. As my pupil, you will be expected to arrive at my quarters immediately after we break our fasts each morning. I do not tolerate tardiness. We break for second meal midday and shall finish your studies midafternoon. Evening meals will be at seven, just after dark descends upon Gladsheim. The rest of the time is your's to command, as you will. I think you will find there is much to _entertain_ you in Asgard." She glanced sideways at Loki but smiled warmly throughout her orders and Sigyn found it amazing that she could do so. Anyone else would have sounded cold, disconnected, intimidating. But the queen's countenance displayed only genuine care and affection, though wrought with great expectations. Frigga snapped her fingers and a plain woman, clad in a simple blue dress with high neck and long sleeves—a servant, she assumed—appeared at her side.

"Lady Sigyn, this is Kyaer. She will be your handmaiden and will reside in the servant's portion of your new chambers. Kyaer, the lady has traveled from Vanaheim and will reside at the palace for a lengthy stay while she studies Sorcery."

At the word _sorcery_, Loki snapped to. He'd not been paying any great attention to the reason for Sigyn's residency. She had _magic_!—he _had_ seen billowy black clouds move about her! His permanent smirk shifted to a toothy smile and he lowered his head, not wanting her to see his excitement. She was so much more _enticing_, suddenly. Her dark beauty now pulsed with enchantment—an invisible and dangerous black cloak of power encircling her small frame. He caught his breath as she turned to walk back down the long path to the doors of the regal room, not before sparing him an absolutely ravishing smile over her shoulder. _Oh, Sigyn_, he thought, _you beautiful deadly creature._


	2. You Are No Match For Me

You Are No Match For Me (Chapter 2)

Sigyn followed her newly appointed and completely _unnecessary_—in her mind—maidservant down a long and lofty golden pillared corridor.

"It's just a bit further, milady." Kyaer turned her head slightly to the small Vanir woman trailing her—footsteps quick in an effort to keep up with the longer legs of the lower caste Aesir.

They made a sharp left and stopped at a pair of, not surprisingly, _golden_ double doors. A beautiful pattern of swirling scrolls adorned the painted wood that had to be at least twenty feet high. Sigyn wondered how anyone could simply open them without breaking her back in the process, but Kyaer turned the knob gently and they swung on their hinges with ease.

The room she entered was ludicrously huge and she scoffed at the richness of it. How many of the lower class would have benefited from even a _quarter_ of the cost it must have taken to build this chamber? Despite her disgust at the apparent Æsir greed, she marveled at the space. It was, without a doubt, spectacularly beautiful. The scent of freshly woven evergreen wreaths invaded her senses, instantly relaxing her previous discomfort. Bright red holly berries adorned crystal vases on the delicate and intricately carved bedside tables. The bed itself could have given sleep to six full-grown Asgardians comfortably. It was a plush copper hued silk and, seeing it, she felt herself grow drowsy. The four posters appeared to have been crafted skillfully and looked like aged bronze. They coiled up to the vaulted ceiling similar to the vines that climbed up the bricks of her beloved dwelling in Vanaheim.

As the memory of the simplicity of her home invaded her thoughts, a sting behind her eyes appeared and she closed the lids tightly to keep the budding tears from spilling over. Asgard did not feel remotely welcoming. Frigga had been very kind, and, _certainly_, the second prince had been tempting to her feminine senses, but Odin and the thunder god had plowed through her with their rude words as though she were nothing more than a field in need of harvesting—a crop ready for death and cowering in fear at the sound of the horse's hooves. The mere fact that they all towered over her _short_ frame made her insides boil.

"The Queen suggested a wash to calm you before dinner. They are always quite the formal affair and can be rather anxiety producing to new guests. Shall I draw you a bath?" The pretty servant strode to another obnoxiously tall set of doors and pushed them ajar to show a very inviting washroom. Sigyn followed and gaped at the sight of the white marble surroundings. A pool—the meek word '_bath'_ would not have done it justice—had been built into the gleaming tiled floor and sparkled clear coral and gold as the clean water swirled at the surface. Kyaer tossed what smelled and looked like rosemary stems in the inviting liquid and gestured for her to step in. If she'd had second thoughts of undressing in the other woman's presence, they were instantly squelched by the aroma and the tense muscles of her shoulders. She reached behind her back and quickly worked the buttons of her gown loose and stripped. Stepping down into the warm water was as lovely as she'd imagined falling into that huge bed would be. Her body was instantly enveloped in silk and she inhaled the rosemary deeply. Kyaer added some drops of oil to the water and the familiar invigorating smell of eucalyptus brought a smile to her face and she sighed and closed her eyes. She dipped her hair back and then submerged herself completely. When she resurfaced, wiping the hair from her eyes, Kyaer's hand was covering her mouth as she attempted to hide a chuckle.

"What?" Sigyn blinked rapidly and spit out a mouthful of bathwater.

"It just seems as though you've never had a bath before. You look positively, well, _orgasmic_!" The maidservant blushed and laughed out loud.

Sigyn's eyes went wide before she joined the woman in her humor.

"Well, I've never bathed in a _reservoir_ before! It's absolutely breathtaking! I feel nearly guilty partaking in such a luxury—_nearly_." She smirked at Kyaer who shook her head and offered her a fluffy warm towel—freshly washed and recently dried. It smelled like the mint leaves in her garden back home and she mashed her face into its softness longer than necessary to remove the water droplets.

"Oh this smells like home!" Sigyn breathed in the scent as she ascended the curved stairs of the '_tub'_ and allowed Kyaer to dry her with another towel. A thick white floor length robe was draped about her shoulders and she walked back into the bedchamber looking for a wardrobe.

Spotting the large cherry colored armoire, she glided elegantly to its massive doors. Upon opening them, she gasped at the expansive gallery of dresses before her. Every shade of an Asgardian rainbow glared back at her—overwhelming her _black_ tendencies. She turned on her heels and looked at Kyaer with a scowl on her face. "Everything is so _loud_!—is there nothing in _black_?—_grey_? I'd even settle for _silver_!"

Kyaer calmly rifled through the lavish garments of Sigyn's newly provided wardrobe. She furrowed her brow and she shook her head at the pretty Vanir.

With a sympathetic half smile, she removed a dark green dress. "It appears you have only color to work with, milady. _This_," she held the gown out on full display, "appears to be the darkest, and least brilliant, shade. Shall we have a look at it on you?" Kyaer placed the hanger back on the bronze rod and helped Sigyn step into the gown. It was cut like an Æsir dress, naturally, and Sigyn felt freer in it than she would have in any of her own dresses. There were no constricting ties to inhibit her breathing and she gulped in the abundant oxygen.

"I have to admit that the women here must be more comfortable. And it looks," she stared at her reflection in the floor length bronze gilt mirror leaning against the opposite wall, "quite…_fetching_, actually." She smoothed the fabric of the skirts and looked down at the hem—at least three inches of fabric grazed the floor. She would have to hold it up so as not to trip and fall flat on her face—as though she needed further humiliation.

"Isn't _green_ the dark prince's color?" She risked looking up from underneath her brow at her personal attendant.

Without hesitation, Kyaer responded. "Yes, milady. Prince Loki's color is green. Though it is several hues brighter than the shade you are sporting. Why do you ask, if I may be so bold?" Her eyes searched Sigyn's face curiously.

"I find him…_intriguing_, but I do not wish to give the wrong impression. I've heard that everyone is particular to their colors—the women wearing that of the men they wish to attract, romantically speaking. Is that correct?" Sigyn felt her face flush as she voiced her interest in Loki to this female stranger. She tensed up as she imagined Kyaer casually mentioning this conversation to her fellow workers and word spreading—she would be thought a whore by the end of the night.

"Not to worry, milady. Prince Loki is quite aloof and will, in all likelihood, not even notice your presence, let alone the color of your gown—which is, again, not the same shade as his." Kyaer spoke plainly with raised eyebrows, despite the thinly veiled insult, as though it should have been apparent to the recently relocated foreigner.

"Of course. I'm not familiar with the intricacies of Asgard's court. Dark green dress it is." She let the offensive words roll off her back as Kyaer pulled a drying bristle brush through her dark hair. She marveled, momentarily wide eyed, at the odd tool pulling through her locks, instantly removing all traces of moisture from each strand and leaving a shining mane in its wake. Kyaer tugged some hairpins from the pocket of her robe, but Sigyn shook her head. "I keep it loose. I only pull it away from my face for riding and training."

The servant's face screwed up in question. "_Training_, milady?"

Sigyn rolled her eyes. The misogynistic tendencies of this _tall_ haughty race made her stomach turn in disgust. What did the women _do_ all day? Knit? Sew? Gossip? Play dress up?! "Yes, _training_. With swords, daggers, bows, and any and all other manner of weapon as befits a warrior."

"I've never heard of such a thing. Don't you get _hurt_? We are not as strong as our male counterparts." Kyaer's voice cracked at 'hurt' and she put a hand to her throat as though the thought of a bruise or cut would prove deadly.

"_By Hel_!—you people are the most archaic group of blockheaded sexist fools I've had the pleasure of meeting in my three hundred years! Of course I get hurt! And the more I bleed, the further I am encouraged to not allow it to happen again—fighting is a skill and a _woman_ has the same capacity to learn a skill that a man does. I would not be left defenseless if war descended upon my people. I refuse to run or cower in fear, and my training keeps me from doing just that. The sex that is betwixt my legs does not hinder me from battle. I will speak no more on the matter. The _calming_ bath is losing its affect and I would not have it so as the night meal approaches." She moved to the sprawling vanity—it would be huge in order to accommodate the near _fifty_ bottles of beauty products that lined the immaculate marble surface. She answered her own previous question as to the use of a female's time in Asgard—_primping_. She searched for a familiar looking container of mint liquid meant for cleaning one's teeth. Upon finding the translucent green bottle, she removed its cork and poured a coin sized amount into her palm which she licked and swirled around her tongue and teeth. She then pinched her cheeks and dabbed a deep red balm to her lips. One quick look over and a fluff of her hair and she returned to the bedchamber to find herself alone. Her outburst must have upset the maidservant's _delicate_ sensibilities.

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders as she inspected her new living quarters more thoroughly. A marble tiled fireplace gleamed in shades of coral and bronze—the lack of her favorite _non-color_, black, frustrated her to no end. The endless array of rainbow like hues, in her mind, detracted from the natural beauty of the Realm Eternal. Did they really need to carve everything out of gold? Was it truly necessary to force one to live with permanently squinted eyes in order to shield them from the endless jewel tones and fluffy pastels? What she wouldn't give to visit a _man's_ chambers to examine how much colorful exhibition she would find there. Surely the Æsir men surrounded themselves in rich black mahogany and leather—if the women were forced to be colorful unicorn beauty queens, the men would also fit their preferred _traditional_ stereotype, yes?

Her pessimistic musings were interrupted by three sharp knocks on the elaborate doors of the main chamber. "Enter!" She hadn't meant the word to be so loud.

A tall—of course—yellow caped member of Odin's honored guard stepped heavily into the—foyer?—she knew not what to call it but it was the gleaming cherry wood landing that was five steps up from the rest of the room. "Lady Sigyn, you are called to night meal. I am to escort you."

She sighed as she stood, the dark green silk rustling with the movement. She followed him from the coppery bronze brazen chamber into the corridor, their steps echoing off the endless stone. She took note that the space was empty save for the still as statues royal guards that stood at attention every other pillar—shields over chests and swords sheathed. They came to the end of the hall where the sound of dishes clanking and ringing laughter grew steadily louder. Well, she thought, at least the _formal_ dinner _sounded_ pleasant enough—mead probably aided in the gaiety of the guests. Two guards moved from their posts in front of another pair of lavish and lofty doors in order to allow Sigyn to join the nobles and royal family in the dining hall.

Her eyes widened at the beauty she beheld. The sheer _mass_ of the hall made it more akin to a ballroom. The floors were made of meticulously mopped and waxed black marble tiles with an inlaid mosaic in the shape of Yggdrasil, perfect in its likeness to the great tree. Three stone walls painted gold with intricately carved crown molding formed the boundaries of the hall. An open air semicircular balcony extended from the end of the room, where the fourth wall would have been. Smoothly sanded circular pillars etched with gold and silver filigree scrollwork rose to the fifty foot heights where cherry stained rafters supported the vaulted ceiling—the finest Vanir _cathedrals_ would have been put to shame. Low hanging bronze pendants descended from the towering ceiling, bathing the great hall in dim golden candlelight.

Absorbed in the stunning architecture, she hadn't noticed the suddenly quiet guests staring at her expectantly. At the sound of the queen clearing her throat, Sigyn snapped out of her trance. Suddenly aware that each pair of eyes had settled on her, she bowed low and quietly apologized for her tardiness. Eyes dancing rapidly from stranger to stranger, they finally landed upon the oddly piercing green orbs that had dazzled her in Odin's throne room. He was clad in the same body-hugging black leather get-up from their first meeting—although meeting was perhaps not the proper term since he hadn't said a word to her. She held his gaze as she walked soundlessly to her plush black and gold chair at the far end of the u-shaped table where she had been conveniently assigned the seat by the younger son of Odin. He didn't take his eyes off her and turned his refreshingly dark haired head as she came up to the spot just to his left. A barely visible crooked grin graced his striking features as he pulled her chair out enough for her to sit. _Chivalry is alive and well in Asgard_, she mused. She nodded thanks to him with the most stoic expression she could manage despite her desire to melt into a puddle at his feet. _Gods, if he wasn't the most beautiful creature she'd ever laid eyes on!_

Loki allowed his barely there smirk to widen into a dazzlingly bright smile at the sound of her thoughts. She thought him beautiful?—_Beautiful_?! Of all the words she could have landed upon, '_beautiful'_ was her very _loud_ and confident choice. He cut into the roasted pheasant on his plate and took the most polite bite she'd seen from a man. His chewing was slow and silent. She discreetly watched out of her periphery as the lean muscles of his jaw worked the bird into fine grounds and swallowed methodically, his prominent Adam's apple dropping and rising on his gracefully veined long neck. She desperately wanted to trace the length of his hollow cheeks down to his sharply cut jaw and further upon that sensual pale neck. Her thoughts were ringing in his ears and he could no longer contain his amusement. He laughed out loud, head tilted back, reveling in her apparently _zealous_ desire for him.

At Loki's sudden outburst, the room fell silent. It wasn't often that the dark prince showed anything other than a mischievous glint in his eyes accompanied with a menacing toothy grin. Anger—no, _rage_ more accurately—was his second most displayed emotion. Genuine amusement—not at the expense of another's misfortune—was rare and the dinner guests stared curiously at him. His laugh had descended into shoulder shaking giggles. He was _giggling_, for Hel's sake! If he hadn't been so focused on her lustful thoughts, he might have felt sincere embarrassment.

Sigyn felt her insides turning to molten lava at the lovely sound of his laugh. How dare his laugh be as attractive as his face and physique! She was angry with herself for the arousal she was experiencing and blushed hotly. Her eyes went wide when his hand landed on her right thigh, his face relaxing into a slight grin, green eyes burning into her own.

"Lady Sigyn, I think it only fair that I tell you of my talent for _reading_ _minds_." He smirked as he looked at her from underneath his brow.

The pink blush deepened to a humiliating crimson and she could hear the blood rushing through her ears. Horrified that he knew her thoughts of him, and feeling utterly violated, she blinked back angry tears. _By the Norns_!—what Hel had she fallen into?! He had been laughing _at_ _her_! She felt tiny and stupid and attempted to think of anything else but her embarrassment so as not to further implicate herself to him. Apples!—Furry kittens!—Evergreens standing tall and proud in Vanaheim!—Anything but his face or how much she wanted to put her mouth on his despite his mocking her!

"Allow me to congratulate you on your _skillset_, Prince Loki. It is not often that a woman is unable to conceal her interests—we are powerfully manipulative in nature. Forgive me for my _lurid_ thoughts." She composed herself and looked away from him as a servant offered a goblet of mead—ugh, she wanted _wine_!—which she gulped greedily as though it might disappear if it wasn't immediately consumed.

"My many thanks, _darling_. I'm quite flattered by those _lurid_ thoughts, actually. I think you are perhaps as dark in nature as I am. Oh, and did you intentionally wear a _green_ dress, dearest? I must say, you are positively _ravishing_ in it." The smirk did not leave his face, nor did the hand on her thigh which tightened ever so slightly.

She narrowed her eyes and returned his smirk with a glower and gently moved his hand back to his own lap. "Flattery is not in my _dark_ nature. And _this_?" She gestured to the green silk of her gown and pulled some of the top layer of sheer fabric so that it grazed the skin of his long fingered left hand. He glanced down at the motion and turned his hand palm up to grasp the fabric lightly—it was as soft and sensual as it looked—before returning his eyes to her lovely face. Her lips parted and she leaned closer to him, her knee touching his. "_This_ just happened to be the closest thing to _black_ in the wardrobe I've been provided. Everything else was so brazenly colorful. I do not possess the Æsir female's preferences apparently. But if you find me _positively ravishing_, then I've unwillingly bewitched you, dear prince. I think I shall avoid green in the future." She pulled her knee and dress back and grabbed an apple from a servant's tray as he passed. She bit into it, lips lingering on the deep red skin. She smirked at his pursed lips and sat back casually in her chair, one elbow resting on the back. Loki lowered his gaze to her chest and moved his mouth to her ear. She shivered at his cool breath so close to the sensitive skin of her neck, feeling terribly vulnerable.

"Spells will not work on me, _beautiful girl_. You would do well to remember it. You are no match for me. Set your sights _lower_." He breathed into her ear before returning his focus to his plate.

To her shame, she felt her heart drop into her stomach at his rejection. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew he was toying with her. He seemed to be a man who wanted control and her bold words had probably set him off. She had played the game wrong and failed miserably. He could read her thoughts. He'd said he was flattered and said she was ravishing. She knew him to be a talented liar though and she allowed herself to hope his rejection was not entirely truthful.

…

The rest of the dinner found Loki and Sigyn picking at the food on their plates in silence, not sparing each other a second's glance. No warmth radiated from his body, strangely enough, and it bothered her greatly. It was as though he had disappeared. He made no sound other than the slight rustle of his leather clad arms as he sparingly lifted miniscule bites to his mouth. Her new found knowledge of his telepathic abilities had her on edge and unable to breathe properly—as though wearing her constrictive Vanir dress rather than the soft silk currently draped about her. She was unable to allow her mind to wander and, by the end of the meal, was completely exhausted. The task of controlling those thoughts—the force required to focus on anything other than the one thing that she desperately wanted to—had given her a terrible headache.

She started at the sudden movement to her right, taking her from her focus. Loki had tossed his napkin on the plate and let out an annoyed and exaggerated sigh. She risked actually turning her head to look at him. He did not acknowledge her presence and downright ignored her by turning his body away and starting a quiet conversation with his mother. _Was he that childish_?! Sigyn dropped her guard and let her mind control her rather than the other way around. It was liberating and relieving to do so, as though breaching the surface of the sea after nearly drowning, gasping and gulping in the life giving air. Had a woman never spoken to him in such a manner? Just because she found him physically appealing in every aspect of the word—did that mean she was to simply give in to his advances? What God of Mischief he was!—not wanting anyone else to play along with him! The attraction she'd felt so strongly to him was quickly turning into disgust and anger. He suddenly sat up straighter and turned his head sharply, his profile now visible to her. _Ha!—I suppose reading minds isn't always flattering_, she mused. She had expected he'd been attuned to her every strand of thought. Perhaps that was why he'd sounded so annoyed. Listening desperately, trying to find himself within those thoughts, and coming up completely empty.

"Lady Sigyn, is it?" The question came from behind her left shoulder and she turned to see an absolutely dashing smile displayed on a very attractive face.

"Yes, it is. And how may I address you, good sir?" She grinned, one corner of her mouth raised slightly higher than the other, and arched a black eyebrow at the blond man who was bent down on one knee.

"You may call me Fandral, my lady. I am one of the Warriors Three, close friends of Thor and the Lady Sif and Loki, ahem, when he allows such _sentiment_. I must admit, I have been unable to focus on anything other than you and desire your attention, if only for a bit. Would you give it?" The confident smile had fallen slightly as his eyebrows raised in question. She noticed the flick of his eyes for a half second in Loki's direction, who had turned his head back to the queen, giving an award winning performance of nonchalance. She could actually _hear_ the prince bristle at Fandral's romantic efforts.

Smiling widely, she extended her hand to the attractive blond male, which he grasped and kissed, lips lingering on her knuckles. She pushed her own chair back and rose to her feet. Fandral stood upright with a shocked expression. Noticing the movement of his eyes from the chair back to her face, she scoffed. Did a woman require the aid of a man to even stand from her seat in this blasted city?! Perhaps it was an overreaction on her part, but she rolled her eyes at him. "I appreciate a gentleman, but do not require one." She kept her hand in his and pulled him back to his seat further down the table. Volstagg stood, offering her his chair, which she took gladly. With gleeful smugness, she flirted with Fandral while discreetly sneaking glances at the dark prince.

He was talented in his act—ignoring the exchange between the blond warrior and the dark beauty. But he couldn't help but dare to look at the woman. He caught her mocking gaze at one point when Fandral had turned to address Sif. He could hear their utterly boring words about who had bested who in the training grounds earlier. With a clenched jaw, he stood abruptly and excused himself. He bent and kissed Frigga's hair before strutting across the hall, purposefully behind the Warriors Three where he shoved Fandral with his shoulder and pardoned himself sarcastically. The four friends glared at him as he shot Sigyn a searing glance before exiting the hall. He'd said she was no match for him. _Damnit_, he hated being wrong.


	3. Are We Blood Brothers

Chapter 3

The cold blood boiled in his veins as he stormed into his chambers. Twisting his wrist, the enchanted black doors slammed behind him. He'd barely touched his food at dinner thanks to that short and aggravatingly gorgeous woman. What had he been thinking when he requested that his mother seat Sigyn next to him? His empty stomach growled as he grabbed a kelly green apple from an aged brass bowl atop the black wrought iron sofa table and bit into it, his jaws sending a loud 'crack' through the dark room. Three more chomps echoed before his anger overcame his hunger and he grimaced at the tart taste, spewing curses, and threw the rest of the fruit across the room with such force that it smashed the mirror it collided with.

At the sound of shattering glass, the great sleeping black wolf that was sprawled across the fireplace rug lifted his huge head to glare at his master. Loki glared back, lips pressed into a thin line, jaws clenched.

"Sorry, Fenrir." He mumbled the words so low that even the beast, with all its superior auditory abilities, leaned his ear that much closer and squinted his brown eyes to hear the apology. The canine cocked his head and blinked at him, as though asking 'what happened?'

Loki moved to kneel next to the wolf, his son after a certain shape-shifting situation, and hung his head. If there was anyone he felt he could speak to, completely uninhibited, it was the great wolf, who understood and empathized, wordless though he was. Even Frigga, in all her gentle motherly love and leadership, had proven to be an unacceptable confidante. A memory, an exceptionally unpleasant one—most of them were—reared its ugly head.

…

Nothing more than a boy at the time, he'd found the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. They'd smelled as sweet as they'd looked—reds, oranges, purples—a fiery sunset blooming in a palace maid's chambers. He'd caught sight of them as the door was closing after her exit. 'My mother would love those,' he'd thought. And so he'd used his budding Seiðr to unlock the door and steal them for the queen. He'd been involved in a game of tag with Thor, Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun and upon rushing out of the room, Thor had caught him.

"I thought we were playing tag? And here you are collecting flowers like a girl! You're it now, little girl!" Thor had laughed and made to run away but Loki had grabbed him by his sleeve and, when it ripped, the older brother had turned red with anger.

"I didn't mean to, Thor!" Loki had cried as the blond boy had punched him hard in his gut causing him to drop the flowers and double over in pain. Thor was powerfully built even as a child and Loki bore the brunt of his, mostly, playful violence.

"What are you doing with these stupid stems anyway?" Thor had reached a hand to Loki and helped him to his feet, regretting his actions at the sight of his little brother's skinny frame hunched over.

Loki had smiled proudly as he swiped the buds back up and held his stomach, wincing slightly. "They're for Mother. I saw them in that servant's room."

"She won't want them if you stole them." Thor sniffed at a blossom and scrunched his nose. "They stink."

"They do not! And she won't know where they came from anyway." Loki turned and skipped in the direction of the queen's chambers with Thor hot on his heels.

"I'm going to tell her that you took them." With that, Thor grabbed the bouquet and ran to their mother's rooms.

When Loki had caught up to his brother, Thor was already handing the flowers to Frigga. "He stole them! I saw him!"

Frigga had looked disappointingly at Loki as he held his hung low. He'd only wanted to give her something pretty. Who cared where it had come from—what did a servant need them for anyway? In his mind, he'd done nothing truly wrong. His mother had dismissed Thor and called Loki to sit with her. She'd discussed the usual 'don't take what isn't yours' and 'the ends don't justify the means' lectures that he'd been given before.

"Do you not like them at all, Mother? I thought you would because they are so pretty—like you." Loki's eyes had glistened, waiting for her response, hoping for some semblance of affirmation—of appreciation.

"I do, my love." Frigga had hugged him and he'd left feeling whole—complete—loved.

When he'd received the same lecture later from Odin at the night meal, he'd looked at Frigga. She had only looked at her husband. 'Why did she tell him?' he'd thought.

…

Loki stopped the memory dead in its tracks. It was one of countless other memories he kept pushed at the back of his mind. He loved his mother and she loved him. He held to that thought. It was the anchor in his constantly storming sea, every time he was reminded of his strained relationship with—well—everyone.

Fenrir laid his heavy head on Loki's leather clad thighs. How had this night gone to Hel? After eavesdropping on her silent words in the throne room and learning of her magical pursuits, he'd imagined that she would be his first true lover. Her black gown and painted nails—the dark cloud that surrounded her at Thor's words—the way she'd made the flames flicker—the way her eyes had born into his without a hint of fear—she should have fallen, head first, at his words, at his mere presence, at night meal! They would make such a pair!—conspiring together, pooling their dark magic as one—he could open her beautiful stormy eyes to new worlds using pathways Heimdall himself did not know. Instead, she'd felt a terrible combination of anger toward and desire for him. He'd experienced that same cocktail of emotion many times and it had steadily proven to be a violent and deadly concoction. He considered himself a man of control when it came to the opposite sex. Many women of the court, as well as servant girls, and multiple peasants had made clear their affections for him and he had never needed force to bed them. Only once had he performed something that was not entirely consensual, and it had ended in a death so gruesome that the petite blond woman was no longer recognizable and could not be identified, even by her own parents, when the decaying and partially scavenged flesh and bones had been discovered along the shore of the Eternal sea. Even he, in all his mischievous and dark tendencies, felt guilt when that woman came to his mind.

He couldn't allow Sigyn to get under his skin like that. She had no idea what he was capable of and could very well end up getting herself killed if she continued in this manner with him. He stroked Fenrir's head before pulling himself to his feet. The glowing green flames in the fireplace danced in a mockingly happy manner and he snuffed them out with another flick of his wrist. He couldn't stay there. His chambers were suddenly stifling and an odd sense of claustrophobia settled over him. This exotic foreign woman had a heart-wrenching effect on him—an effect which he'd agonizingly not been prepared to handle. He removed his black leather topcoat and armored breastplate, leaving him in only his black and green leather tunic and left to lose himself in the only place no one would bother him.

…

So much for no one bothering him—he'd not had fifteen minutes to himself before he heard the familiar heavy footfalls of his brother.

"Loki?" Thor used his best version of a library voice which was still countless decibels louder than it should have been, that is, if there had even been anyone else within the book-filled hall to scold him. "Brother, please? I barely saw you in the dining hall—Father spoke of politics and diplomacy at me the entire meal—and when he finally released me, I saw my brother storming out early." Sadness enveloped his tone and Loki could not continue in his favorite hiding spot amongst the rafters. Thor's pain was his pain, and he would not endure it willingly—he suffered enough on his own.

"I'm up here, Thor." He aimed his head toward the thunder god but kept his eyes on the arched window across from his make shift seat atop the cherry plank—legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, his back leaning against the vaulted ceiling. He closed the book he'd pulled from the shelf. Pages dog-eared, scribbled notes throughout passages—he'd read it at least a hundred times but would never admit to it. Midgardian poetry was oddly beautiful despite his distaste for the humans. He'd discovered two particular works and after fifty years was still dissecting their meanings. His fingers stroked the fading ink of the first, the words rising up from the pages, as though the letters would sound themselves out before his eyes. He read them aloud, loud enough for Thor to hear.

" 'For I have known them all already,/ known them all:/ Have known the evenings, mornings,/ afternoons,/ I have measured out my life with coffee/ spoons;/ I know the voices dying with a dying/fall/ Beneath the music from a farther room./ So how should I presume?' " He continued despite the shift in the air as Thor walked quietly toward him, mouth opened to speak. Loki held up a hand to silence him.

" 'And I have known the arms already,/ known them all—/ Arms that are braceleted and white and/ bare/ (But in the lamplight, downed with/ light brown hair!)/ Is it perfume from a dress/ That makes me so digress?/ […] And should I then presume?/ And how should I begin?' "

"Stop it, Loki…" Thor's voice had softened further as he stared up at the musing black haired prince.

Loki stole his eyes from the tattered book and shot piercing emerald eyes at the concerned aqua ones below. " 'I should have been a pair of ragged/ claws/ Scuttling across the floors of silent/ seas.' "

Thor climbed gracefully, despite his size, up to Loki's perch and hurled himself over the rafter, straddling the thin plank, boots hanging off the edge. He swung his legs slightly as he peered at his dark brother.

"Don't ask." Loki stared daggers.

Thor put his hands up as though admitting defeat. "I wasn't going to."

"I. Hate. That. Woman." The words came out as staccato notes—so different from the lucid flowing language that typically rolled off his tongue. He pulled his hand down his face and ran the other through his hair which he'd clearly been pulling at in frustration prior to Thor's arrival.

"Which one? There are so many to harbor such an emotion against." Thor's humor was lost on his brother who continued to glare at him.

The golden son threw his hands up and hung his head. "I think Hela herself will not accept you as her guest upon your death. Will you ever find your way out of this darkness, Loki?"

A cold fell over them as Thor spoke. Loki's head dropped and his hands shook. "Perhaps I will destroy the Nine Realms and will have no need of a place of rest or torture upon my death—for all will die with me and we will simply cease to exist. All will be dark and there will be no finding our way out."

"You speak of the Lady Sigyn." Thor played with the fabric of his cloak, pulling at an imaginary thread. When he raised his gleaming ocean colored eyes to meet Loki's there was no anger left—only despair remained. He worried for his younger brother. How could he rule Asgard without the dark prince at his side—so cunning and educated and far superior to Thor in his intellect—what sort of wondrous diplomat would Loki be, if he would only take the chance? Even if Thor could find a way to bring and sustain peace within the realms without Loki to advise him, he didn't want to. His love for the man across him was enough to break him. Thor would die for his brother, not a second's consideration needed.

Loki slid the book just inside the waist band of his breeches and jumped down with ease, feet landing squarely beneath him. He didn't want to talk about Sigyn. Thor's boots thudded softly on the floor behind him.

"She is not what I thought her to be." His green eyes darted back and forth across the ebony floor, mindlessly searching for something—anything—that would explain her downright malicious behavior, and worse, his miserably pathetic response to it. She was only one woman, for Valhalla's sake! What made her rejection of him worth the rage threatening to implode within this shell that was his body? He'd listened to her thoughts—Hel, he couldn't have missed them because her mind was practically shouting them—and he'd featured as her leading man in each one. She'd wanted him—no, she'd needed him, and the moment he'd pulled out all his charming stops, she'd all but stuck a knife in him and twisted the blade within the wound. He so often shielded his heart that he'd forgotten he had one and tonight Sigyn, with a few words and her stormy eyes cast in his direction, had proven the fist-sized organ still beat within his chest. He was not a cat and she was no mouse.

"No woman is. What did you expect? I know you asked mother to place the girl next to you." Thor put his hand on his brother's shoulder only to have it shrugged off. His jaw clenched at the hostility rolling off of Loki. It mattered not who or what had upset the dark son—Thor was always on the receiving end of his wrath. Perhaps it was because they had no need for pretense between them—they allowed their emotions free reign because of that same blood that flowed through their veins. However, that shared blood flowed black through Loki—something was off within him that Thor never could pin down—and he sometimes thought they were not brothers at all.

"Of course you knew. Did she tell you, then? Or did you seek out the information yourself? Mother can't keep anything from you." Loki ran a trembling hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. His head hung, desperately wanting to rid himself of this incessant unworthy feeling. He'd felt it throughout his childhood. Odin had given Thor preference in everything—the better tutors, the more skilled trainers, the bigger horse, the benefit of the doubt even when the golden prince hadn't deserved it, the shorter lectures,…the hammer. Teeth clenched and eyes pinched together at the thought of Mjölnir, his Seiðr rushed out of his extremities in a glowing green light, and he kicked powerfully at a plush reading lounge—the heavy brass frame flying into a nearby bookshelf sending the beautiful leather bound pages scattering across the floor amongst the feathers that had been incased in the now shredded fabric of the seat.

"Can she keep anything from you?" Thor didn't allow him to respond, shushing his open mouth with a raised hand. "Mother adores you, Loki. She would lay down her life for you—walk through Helheim for you. What is it that Midgardian bard wrote?—'love is not love…' something…" He grasped at the far reaches of his school aged mind and came up empty. The text had been taught to him so long ago. It had been positively heart-breaking—the words stunning his selfish tendencies and pulling him into the stirrings of true manhood—not sexual coming of age, that would have come without any effort. Upon reading those fourteen poetic lines, he'd felt himself mature overnight. They'd been infinitely powerful—what were they? He did not have to think on it long for Loki finished the sonnet, with perfect recitation.

"'…which alters when it alteration finds,/ Or bends with the remover to remove:/ O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,/ That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;/ It is the star to every wandering bark,/ Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken…'" His voice trailed off somberly, his glistening eyes looking up to the great heights of the ceiling, seeing past it.

"Yes, that's it. 'Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,/ But bears it out even to the edge of doom.' You've no idea the depths of love that she feels for you—that I feel for you, Brother." Thor's voice cracked imperceptibly—Loki's despair was his Achilles's heel—keeping his wits about him became damn near impossible.

The salty liquid in Loki's eyes retracted back into the ducts from which they'd sprung as his sorrow returned to a burning rage. "It must be so simple—so simple!—to waltz in here in the manner of a shepherd on the trail of his lost lamb." His words dripped with poorly masked hatred. "You forget, your highness, that I am no lamb. And Sig—that woman—she…" words failed him and he bent down, removing the shining silver dagger that he kept faithfully sheathed in his right boot, and slammed it point down onto the closest cherry wood reading table, one of hundreds scattered throughout the hall.

"Dare I say it?—that she has done nothing?—nothing to deserve this kind of response?" Thor steadied himself in preparation for the coming onslaught of piss and hate. He squatted low as the green light shot out from Loki's hand, barely escaping the body bending pain of his brother's powerful magic. Loki spun his body grasping the edge of the beautifully carved table which had endured the stab of his dagger and he retrieved the silver blade by the gold and leather gilt handle. He bent low, facing Thor who now held Mjölnir in his right hand, and narrowed his eyes, teeth barred. Seeing the hammer, Loki closed his eyes and sheathed his knife.

"You are a fool." Loki returned to his full height and swallowed back the tortured scream that had meant to escape from his throat. "And you know nothing of which you speak. She has magic, Thor!—Magic! I could hear her dark thoughts—her boldness—her desires. She is one and the same as me! For once in my pathetic excuse of a life, a woman actually snubbed you and looked instead at me and as soon as I made, as a fool would, to give her what she seemed to want—to get what I want!—she withdrew the hand she'd extended, and what's worse, she put that tiny beautiful hand into Fandral's!"

Thor slung his hammer once more on his belt and spoke louder, calling the empty room to attention. The soulless objects—shelves, desks, tables, lamps, chairs—they all seemed to become taller—straighter—as though obeying a king's command to stand up from a prostrate position. Even Loki's posture changed at the sound of the crowned prince's voice.

"She toys with you! Can you not see that? Has your hatred for every single living thing and, apparently," he gestured to the broken chair and damaged table, "non-living thing blinded you so much that you no longer see the truth for lies and, more importantly, the lies for truth?! No, brother, it is not I who plays the fool now. You will lose her, that is, if you haven't lost her already." He didn't wait for Loki's snide retort. He spared him one last look of concern before turning away from the seething glare etched into his brother's features and exited the library silently.

No sooner had the lofty doors swung closed when Loki climbed back to his rafter perch. He sighed and his shoulders slumped as he pulled the book from his waist. He gave up the fight against the tears that had threatened his pride since those fateful first words exchanged with Sigyn in the early evening hours. Not bothering to wipe them away, he closed the lids and spoke the words on the page having put them to memory long ago. His lips trembled as the words poured out, stunted aching sobs wrenching his body. " 'I have heard the mermaids singing,/ each to each./ I do not think that they will sing to me./ I have seen them riding seaward on the waves/ Combing the white hair of the waves/ blown back/ When the wind blows the water white and black./ We have lingered in the chambers of/ the sea/ By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red/ and brown/ Till human voices wake us, and we/ drown.' "

He was wretched and utterly worthless. Wretched and worthless—over and over those two words flashed behind his closed eyelids and he succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

…

He found himself pacing in his chambers. His attempt to comfort or understand Loki had failed, once again, miserably. Anger was brewing within him steadily, starting at the middle of his chest and moving outward in all directions. He was a pool—his heart was the watery essence—and his brother was the heavy jagged rock that had been thrown into him, displacing his molecules and sending out painful ripples. He longed for the cruel stone thrower—the hatred that controlled Loki—to cease its game of skipping stones. The only way to calm the storming sea that was his body awaited him below the palace, on the outskirts of the surrounding grounds and gardens where the training arena sprawled, its area akin to the mass of four Midgardian football fields strung together. Without a second's hesitation, he grabbed his crimson cloak and stabbing his arm forward, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of Mjölnir, flew off the balcony and landed at the farthest end of the sparring field. The grass had been worn down and browned, killed under the heavy boots of warriors in mock battle.

The moons were mere slivers of light but he could still make out the shape of something straight, small, and black flying across the arena. The thing, which as his eyes adjusted to the dark, was an arrow slicing through the air and embedding itself into one of many practice dummies the warriors used for archery practice. Within the span of five seconds, ten more followed, each splitting the previous one in two. Amazed and in awe of the skill of whoever controlled the flying weapons, he turned his gaze to the small shadowy figure wielding a longbow, that was clearly not of Asgardian make.

Eyes widened in shock, he ducked at the sudden change in posture of the small dark warrior. With an audible 'woosh' an arrow slammed into a three inch in diameter pole of the fence that formed the boundaries between the four separate fields right at his back—the wood splintering as his chest would have if he'd remained standing. He resumed his posture cautiously as the figure grew closer, running directly at him. Who else would be out here at this either very late or very early hour? His mind had no time to guess as the figure came clearly into his vision and stopped short.

Angry grey green eyes bore into him as she lowered the lithe and gracefully curved longbow so that it hung to her side, brushing the dark green silk of her skirt. She wore no cloak, no coat, no outer protection from the icy wind that whipped about them. Her dress swished about her and her long black hair spun around her face as a gust blew across the expansive field. She did not tremble from the cold. The dark clouds above seemed to descend upon them as they glared at each other and a soft layer of snow formed on the dead grass under their feet.

"Why are you here?" Thor broke the silence that overwhelmed the ten feet separating them, a deep chasm that he had no intention of falling into. He did not make to move any closer.

"I've always found physical violence to be the best remedy for sleeplessness." She turned her gaze to the hammer in his fist and back up to his face. "I think perhaps you believe the same."

A genuine smile broke across his face, the feel of it, after frowning all day, was exhilarating and he laughed out loud. "And I think perhaps our sleeplessness stems from the same root."

The black clouds that Loki had spoken of formed at the hem of her dress and she once again fisted her hands. Thor gave her an empathetic half smile. "Whatever he said," he dared a step forward and she stood still, eyes not leaving his, "he did not mean it."

She merely shook her head, still staring at him, but not seeing him. Glazed eyes, turned black, saw a pair of green eyes—dangerous emerald pools worth drowning in—set in a sharply carved pale face framed with the blackest hair. The wetness on her cheeks froze as the temperature dropped further, and her face crumpled shamefully.

"I want to hate him."

It was only a whisper, but Thor read the words on her lips, and heart breaking in mutual understanding, he crossed the distance between them in two steps and wrapped his strong arms around her. She started at the sudden physical contact but he did not release her and she found the embrace to be the most comforting thing she'd felt since her arrival. All dislike she'd had for the golden prince from the moment he'd hurled that insult at her melted in the warmth of his protective arms.

"I do to. Stop trying. It's as exhausting as it is impossible." His voice had lowered and the words were spoken into her hair, his breath displacing the dark strands. He pulled the red cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it about her as her small body shook next to him. His brother was a fool—an absolute fool.

…

Waking from the short but very deep slumber, Loki shook his head and grimaced. He'd fallen asleep with his head bent to the side, resting on his shoulder, and it had left a terrible pain in his neck. He rubbed the ache and stood on the rafter. It was still dark out and the torches in the room had been snuffed out, probably during his unconscious state, by palace maids. The moons cast a silvery glow through the arch window and he crossed the wooden plank, easily balancing on its thin frame.

The library stood at one end of the palace and faced west. There was little to see from the window other than the training arena which was currently unoccupied and covered in a new layer of snow. His eyes squinted at the massive field. There was a dark spot at the far end where no snow had landed—how odd. Cocking his head to the side and jumping to the window ledge for a better view, he placed his hand on the frosted glass.

No. No. No. He was hallucinating. The dark spot was now moving—walking. The dim light from the hazy moons fell, showing very clearly, a tall broad figure with a blond head and a hammer swinging at its side. But the figure was not alone. Walking next to him, shoulders covered with his brothers red cape, was a tiny frame, feminine in shape, with long black hair. His stomach turned as he watched the scene in horror. The blond man draped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She allowed him to hold her as they crossed the expanse of the arena.

What was this?! Had not an hour passed since that blond man walking across the field below had been in the library, seemingly so concerned for the well-being of his younger brother? And now Thor was taking her for himself? He went numb. He wanted to look away but he was a glutton for punishment, apparently, and he continued to stare in shock at their love scene playing out before his eyes.

He hadn't thought to, but the magic shot from him—swarming around him, bathing him in the eerie neon green light of his powerful Seiðr—and sharp deep cracks weaved a jagged web across the plate glass window, which was twenty feet wide and twice as tall at the tip of the arch, before exploding violently out and falling in heavy loud shards to the garden below. They'd heard the sound—who wouldn't have? And they parted and stared at the empty space left where the window had been. He watched as Thor shook his head and finished the trek across the arena in solitude. The other figure removed the red cloak and stilled herself, facing him. Grey green eyes met his as the wind whipped his hair about his face and he could bear her sorrowful gaze no longer. He turned away, jumping back to his rafter and down into the dark hall where his magic had left nothing but broken fragments of furniture and pages of books hurled in all directions across the massive space, all the while hearing his name on a feminine voice, floating on the frozen wind.

…


	4. Black Flame, Silver Dagger

Chapter 4

Burning yellow blazed across the inside of her eyelids and she scrunched her face as she pulled the soft thick copper silk over her face. A low gravelly growl came from under her breath as a happy whistling tune reached her ears from underneath the blanket.

"Must you do that, Kyaer?" Sigyn mumbled as she threw the bedcover down and sat up, a deep scowl wrinkling her brow. The huge open balcony's drapes had been pulled back, revealing Asgard's brilliant sun. She had not slept enough, not even close. After Loki's seething exit from night meal, she'd excused herself rudely from the company of Thor's friends and stole away to her chambers to fetch her longbow and arrows. Firing the weapons into the burlap covered dummy had been soothing. Thor's arrival had interrupted her sanctity and though his brotherly affections had stitched together the gaping wound of Loki's bite, she'd wanted him to leave. Something deep within her soul had told her _this is wrong_. She'd felt an intimate closeness, despite their quarrel, with the dark prince and allowing his golden brother to wrap her in his cloak had felt treacherous.

When the glass of the library window had shattered, she knew the cause before she even saw him. The look of betrayal that had blazed in Loki's eyes had been heart shattering, as though she'd been that window which now lay in the garden, broken beyond repair. He'd disappeared from her sight and she'd screamed after him, wanting to chase him down and force him to understand. She'd wanted to convince him that she felt nothing other than a platonic affection for his brother—if that.

"Forgive me, Lady Sigyn, but I could only let you sleep in so late. The queen expects you in less than an hour and you've not even broken fast." The maid gave her a sympathetic smile. Sigyn's eyes widened at the prospect of being late to her first training session with the queen herself. She threw her feet over the side of the bed and ran to the washroom where she relieved herself, splashed water on her face, and finger combed her hair.

Kyaer turned the faucet of the bath but Sigyn shoved her out. "No time!" The words were harsh, but she had, as she'd said, no time. "Find me a dress, please." Sigyn ordered the maid without looking at her and returned her gaze to the large oval mirror above the vanity. The frame was made of ivory and a faint gold glow seemed to seep out from it. She wondered absently, her fingers trailing the edges, if the mirror was enchanted and had other uses—checking one's reflection did not require magic, after all. Kyaer's voice snapped her from her musings.

"Here you are, Milady." She held a beautiful silk black gown out to Sigyn.

Her eyes danced with glee and she clasped her hands. "It's black!"

"Yes, I inquired after the queen that your wardrobe should receive a makeover. I made sure that your color, or non-color, preferences be taken into account." The maid smiled broadly at her mistress' affirming belly laugh.

Grasping the beautiful fabric greedily, Sigyn quickly removed the dark green dress that she'd slept in the night before from her tired body. She'd been so exhausted after that horrid dinner and her late night archery lesson, that when she'd returned to her chambers, she'd fallen into the bed without bothering to put on her nightclothes.

She spun around quickly, arms out, and looked questioningly at the maid who simply nodded and left to attend to her other duties throughout the palace. She retrieved her shoes and slung a charcoal colored leather satchel containing her spellbooks from Vanaheim as well as two new ones that had been delivered to her quarters during dinner the night before across her body. _I'll have to break fast on the run_, she thought, darting down the long corridor to the dinner hall where she grabbed two shining green apples. She didn't bother with an apology as several servants dodged her scurried pace to keep from being knocked over. One apple she put in her bag and, biting into the other, delighting in its tart flavor, she hurried back through the doors to find the queen's chambers.

…

Hearing a light knock on her door, Frigga flicked her wrist, a light golden mist glimmering around it, and the doors swung open, bidding Sigyn to step in. The queen had a book in her hand, standing on her balcony as she gazed upon her shining city. She did not turn as her new pupil entered. Sigyn tread lightly across the white marble floor, marveling at its spotless sheen—what a contrast to her messy appearance. Tugging her fingers once more through her tousled locks, she risked opening her mouth, not wanting to interrupt the silence.

"You are not late, dearest. Do not fret." Frigga's voice was a soft cloak, protecting Sigyn from the icy gust of fear threatening to overtake her. The velvety words put Sigyn at ease, and she joined the queen at the balcony.

"No need to delay, Sigyn. Tell me—which forms of _seiður_ are you most familiar?" Frigga gestured to a plush steel blue arm chair, and Sigyn sat at the front of the seat, back straight, ankles crossed. Frigga noticed the formality of her posture and laughed—a cathedral bell chiming, gleefully ringing in a new Vanir season.

"Relax, child! _Seiður_ requires your utmost concentration and even the simple action of propriety will hinder your efforts." She lowered her gaze and pointed at Sigyn's gracefully crossed feet before returning her eyes to the Vanir's face.

Sigyn corrected herself, pushing her back to the cushion behind her, removing her shoes, and bringing her legs up underneath her. The queen nodded her approval and Sigyn searched her brain for the, embarrassingly, few forms of magic that she had had any success with.

"I am able to manipulate fire—that is if it already exists. I cannot conjure it. And I am able to move objects with but a thought." She lowered her head, suddenly self-conscious and aware how simplistic her abilities must sound to the mightiest sorceress in the nine.

"You are _eldur__flutningsmaður _and possess_ huga að færa…_interesting." Frigga put a finger to her lips as Sigyn stared at her, confused by the unfamiliar terms.

The queen grinned with an eyebrow raised in question. "What is wrong, dearest?"

Sigyn sighed and turned the onyx ring on her right middle finger—a snake coiling around it.

"You'll have to excuse my lack of knowledge concerning magical terminology."

Frigga nodded her head and flipped to the introduction of the book she'd been holding. "The Æsir do not look as favorably on sorcery as the Vanir, but we have far more written on it. I sent this same book to your chambers last night. I hope you brought it?"

Sigyn reached into her satchel and retrieved the thick black velvet bound book and opened it to the same page. She scowled at her inability to read the strange words.

"It is written in our ancestral language. We no longer use it in plain speak but all our children are taught it so as to read the history books, naturally. I will translate—you write it down." Frigga handed her an endless ink quill and Sigyn pushed her hair behind her ear, looking to the queen expectantly.

"_Seiður, Seiðr__**. **_Æsir sorcery, and sorcerer—or in my case, and your case, sorceress." Frigga waited as Sigyn wrote the words and whispered them quietly several times before continuing.

"_Huga Seiður _is mind magic_. _There are four types:_ huga að færa _or telekinesis which is the moving of objects with one's mind, which is what you possess_—huga að lesa _is telepathy or communicating with and reading thoughts, which my _son_ is extremely skilled at_—huga stjórna(ndi) _is having control over another's mind—and finally _vöruflutningar á huga _is the ability to transport yourself or another or both or many persons using only your thoughts, also known as teleportation_._ Are you still with me? I know it's a great deal to take in." Frigga stood and absently fussed with an arrangement of flowers atop her desk which faced the balcony as her dark pretty pupil furiously scribbled in the borders of the pages.

"I have _huga að færa._"

"Yes, you are called_ hugur flutningsmaður _or—" Before Frigga could finish, Sigyn cut her off without looking at her.

"Mind mover." Her grey green eyes opened wide, realizing she'd interrupted the queen and wondering suddenly if it had been disrespectful.

Frigga only smiled and nodded. "Excellent. You catch on quickly. We'll get to your talents with fire at a later time—that is quite more advanced. We'll start simple and move forward. Does that sound like a good plan of action to you?" She turned her head questioningly at Sigyn who merely shrugged her shoulders and half smiled.

"I trust you know best. Mind moving it is."

…

How unbelievably frustrating! Sigyn had tried to move a bracelet—a _tiny_ bracelet!—for three hours and nothing happened. It should have been so easy. She'd done it at least a thousand times before. Did Asgard have a dampening effect on her magic? Even Frigga, in all her loving and generous patience had rolled her eyes hugely and suggested they try again the next day—not take a break and resume after midday meal, but wait an entire day before resuming! Sigyn had nearly sobbed as she'd gathered her things and excused herself, thanking the queen for her time. She would be sent back to Vanaheim with no further abilities than when she'd arrived, and Freya would most likely serve her head as the main course for the _Vorhátíð _dinner.

"What's _Vorhátíð_?" Upon hearing the familiar voice, Sigyn started, spinning to see its owner so quickly that she lost her balance and grabbed on to a nearby table to keep from falling. She was hardly aware that she'd made it to her chambers and certainly hadn't meant to be thinking out loud.

"Kyaer, _by Hel_, you scared me!" She held her chest with one hand and placed the other on her waist where she was quickly developing a cramp, of which she couldn't place the cause.

The maid dropped freshly picked evergreen needles in a dark bronze chalice filled with crystal clear water. She then placed the divine smelling bowl on the mantle where the embers of the dying fire mingled with the scent and enveloped the space in a cool smell reminiscent of her snowy homeland. She blinked back tears at the aroma. Either Kyaer was aware of her discomfort within her new home and was simply trying to ease her anxiety with the familiar, or Frigga had ordered the change hoping it would have a calming effect on her and allow her to show some semblance of magical abilities.

"Sorry, Milady. It was not my intention." She smoothed the front of her dress and made to leave the room. When she reached the door, Sigyn found her voice.

"It's our first season. Since Asgard does not even recognize seasons, despite the change in your weather throughout the year, the only thing I can think to compare it to is the Midgardian season called 'spring.' It comes after the coldest time of the year and it is a time of rebirth and hope—surely you've heard of it?" She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, remembering the first signs of green poking out from melting snow. Her cheeks became wet as she recited the verse from the text that is taught to Vanir children in school. "_Á fyrsta degi annars mánaðar. Fagnið! Nýtt líf hefur kómið! Þökk sé mikilli Baldurs._"

Kyaer turned to her with soulful eyes, a heartfelt smile gracing her features as she translated the words with ease. The Æsir at least took care to educate their servants—Sigyn smiled at the thought. "On the first day of our second month. Celebrate. New life has come! Thanks be to great Baldur."

"I think I rather like you." Sigyn stepped forward and grabbed the girl's hands, squeezing gently. Kyaer returned the gesture before giving a quick curtsey and leaving her alone. She frowned at the loss of company and turned, admiring her altered sunshine drenched, pine-scented, darker chambers. She appreciated whoever it was that had made the change for her—she guessed Kyaer had suggested it and the queen had agreed to it. Despite the welcomed change, though, she could not stay. She knew the reason for her frustrating inability to perform that morning—_him_. He refused to leave her thoughts for even a moment's sanity. Last night, she'd been damn near close to retrieving the tiny black metal dagger she kept strapped near the top of her thigh and slamming it, point first, into the dark prince's hand—the very one that had forcefully squeezed her leg.

Dwelling on the events of previous night, she craved blood—and the black mist formed at the soles of her feet. The dying embers in the fireplace roared to life, threatening to escape their place within the soot-filled cavern. Instinctively, she ran across the room to the fine smelling pine and water filled bowl, its shining surface reflecting the ever growing flames. The fire was moving out from the hearth and spreading across the rug. The heat and the smoke combined and painful hacking coughs ripped from her throat—the flames burning ever closer. Calling on her _Seiður,_ which had failed her miserably that morning, she held her hand, palm down, over the bowl which shook underneath as the water rippled and swelled and rose from its vessel until its mass was large enough to fill the great pool in the washroom. She then upturned her palm and thrust it out from her body toward the fiery space—the water shooting over and across the flames, drenching and snuffing them out instantly—soft black tendrils of smoke coiling up into nothingness from the loss of its source.

A wave of nausea overcame the dark Vanir's small frame and she ran, sweating and shivering, to the washroom where she lunged for the relieving vessel. Hurling her body over the ivory bowl, her stomach rejected its contents—undigested bites of apple and thick yellow bile spewing into the opening before the vessel molded itself around the vomit dissolving it instantly. When the bowl opened itself once again, all remnants of sickness—the putrid smell, the vile sight—had disappeared. Sigyn marveled at the advanced technology as she rose to her feet and went to the vanity where she splashed water on her face and swirled the mint liquid around her mouth before gulping down a glassful of water. She pushed her hair back from her pale face and went back to the room, now covered in ashes and water stains. Her guilt did not have time to overtake her as she grabbed her longbow and arrows. Her magic was more powerful than she'd realized and when it was truly needed, not just for the sake of practice, it had bent to her will and followed her soundless command. Feeling a strange mixture of pride, fear, pain, anxiety, and power, she left the room and made way for the training arena.

…

If he spent every night tossing about his dark green sheets like he had last night, he would have permanent black circles under his eyes. Seeing her with his brother had taken his rage to new heights. Mania crept in at his edges, fraying the hem of the fabric that was his very existence. At first he'd assumed Thor was romancing her, envying the affection of the woman who had shown interest in the dark prince. But after his magic took out the library window, he'd allowed himself the pain of really seeing Sigyn. The look she'd given him, the way she'd yelled for him—he'd disappointed her just as he'd disappointed everyone in his life. This beautiful Vanir—his perfect match—had slipped through his fingers and the loss had been unbearable. He'd run, actually run rather than turn to his _Seiður_ and teleport himself back to his chambers. Mind mover, _vöruflutningar á huga—_he may have been but the physical exertion of extending his long legs at full speed had calmed the maddening ocean of despair threatening to drown him.

He'd slept not a wink, laying there in the black furs of his huge wrought iron bed—the posters fashioned as serpents with jade eyes coiling up ten feet—staring at the emerald crystal of his chandelier, the enchanted green candlelight glowing dimly in the dark space. Sigyn, _beautiful_ Sigyn, and her cold grey green eyes—storm clouds twisting violently before blowing everything to oblivion—haunted his thoughts. The black waves of her hair swirling around her face—the dark green skirts pulling at her petite frame—the frozen wind howling, the sound akin to Fenrir's bellow when his master returned from battle, wounded—every detail sliced through his heart. When he arose his hair had been thoroughly tangled, matted with the cold sweat that covered his naked body. He'd been so hot with rage that he'd barely closed the doors behind him before stripping nude and throwing himself on the bed, pale skin turned fever red.

_No_—Thor had not been wooing Sigyn—_his_ Sigyn. Their introduction had been unpleasant and she held no romantic desire for the golden heir, of that, he was certain. What was the purpose of their meeting? He needed to find Thor, who should have returned to his warrior training and would surely be in the arena besting Odin's personal guards, the life sacrificing Crimson Hawks. Thor loved fighting them and they became stronger and more efficient the more he trained with them. Loki despised the famed royal soldiers and had no desire to associate with them in any capacity, but if he didn't speak with Thor now, he would most likely kill the first unfortunate soul he came across.

The dark prince didn't bother with a bath but instead rinsed off under the glass encased waterfall of his washroom, pulling his fingers painfully through the raven forest of thorns that was his hair. He quickly toweled himself and pulled on his thin green linen undershorts and matching long sleeved tunic which he tucked into his black leather breeches. He struggled into the out tunic—thick green fabric interlaced with black leather across the torso, descending into an asymmetrical black leather flap ending mid-thigh. A horizontal upside down antique gold half moon spread across the black breast plate that hung from his shoulders. He grabbed the straps of his heavy black boots and yanked them forcefully over his breeches. He reached for the outer calf length jacket before dropping his hand. He was burning up as it was—no need to add the extra layer. He did unstrap the aged golden pauldron from the jacket and slung the attached strap diagonally across his torso, the buckle pulled to the tightest notch. His matching vambrances, serpents etched into the ancient metal in the same pattern as the armor at his shoulder, laid on his dressing table. He fastened them to his forearms and sheathed his dagger in his boot along with his set of throwing knives which he hid snugly within the leather of his outer tunic. Grabbing an apple from the brass bowl on the sofa table and brushing his hair back behind his ears, he left the dark chamber silently, turning left in the direction of the training grounds.

…

"Why do you insist on carrying that stupid book with you? You've put every word to memory—what need have you to keep it?" Volstagg brought his heavy ax down on his hay filled enemy and frowned at the lack of resistance—fighting with practice dummies was as exciting as it was bloody—thoroughly and disappointingly not.

Sif clutched her well-worn copy of the manual given to first year warriors, _Stríð Handbók Hugtök_—it's teachings infinitely valuable. Volstagg was right—fighting techniques, offensive, defensive, and evasive—had been burned on the inside of her skull long ago. But she kept the book close, perhaps because it had been her first love. Well, at least her first love of fighting—Thor had won her heart long before she'd held her first sword.

" 'Let us not forget the importance of the _klettur_. The rocking body of the _meistari bardagamaður _confuses his enemy. The warrior shall learn the _lágt digur, framan sparka, undanskot, umferð á, brotinn körfu hjól, sporðdreka spark, lágt spuna tvöfaldur fótur spark_.' The terms are of little use when you know the moves, and know them well, you do." Hogun's verbatim recitation stunned them—he spoke rarely, and when he did it was with very few words. He squatted low, avoiding a blow from Theoric, a skilled swordsman and talented warrior, as he spoke.

Sif's mouth parted and closed again, a clever quip aimed at Hogun halted, as she caught sight of Loki descending the stairs at top speed. Whatever had set him on edge, and she guessed it had something to do with that Vanir woman considering his behavior at last night meal, had him practically running toward them. Volstagg had already moved on to his next target, an actual soldier, and was thoroughly distracted, booming laughter exploding from his belly, and had not noticed the furious dark prince gaining on them. Hogun, too, along with his skilled opponent, and Fandral had also hustled to the next section of the grounds where they continued their sparring with new adversaries. Sif was left alone and, as Loki drew closer, she followed the direction his eyes, focusing on his target. Head turning on her shoulders, she saw Thor engaged in a battle, surprisingly, without the aid of Mjölnir. When she looked back to Loki, he glared at her, picking up speed. She didn't see a weapon, but she knew he had a dagger sheathed in his boot—it never left his side. A tightness formed within her chest and her tear ducts filled quickly, giving her no time to stop the waterfall onto her dirt smeared and sweaty face.

"Loki!" She ran toward the tall black figure—his body growing smaller by the second as he disappeared from her sight.

He spun on his heels, facing her, grinning wickedly. "Sif, dear heart!" He bowed mockingly low.

"It's not worth it, Loki. It never is. He's your _brother_ for Valhalla's sake!" She stopped a few feet short of him, feeling small next to his long frame—his menacing emerald gaze piercing her with fear. He tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips, seemingly considering her words. She knew better. Loki listened to no one. He closed the gap between them in one step, one hand wrapped around the back of her neck and one on her shoulder.

"Love makes fools of us. In our love—our hate by another name—we fail to see _worth_. And, dear heart, I find it to be highly _worth_ it." He stroked her face with the tips of his long slender fingers, moving his face inches from hers. The warrior closed her eyes, unsure as to the reason—did she fear him kissing her?—did she want him to?—would that sharp silver blade, his _rýtingur_, find its way to her throat before she took her next breath? The dark prince of Asgard was one of the deadliest creatures in the nine, and she was suddenly terrified. She cursed herself for feeling so helpless—was she not a warrior?

…

She ignored their stares. The Crimson Hawks were a burly crew of huge intimidating men and had nary seen an armed female—save for maybe Sif, but she was the only exception. Her quiver, delicate evergreens carved into the painted black wood, hung at her back—a set of twelve sharp black arrows, jade and silver feathers molded carefully into the ends, peaked out the top. The curved longbow slung across her body, the taut string at the front, left shoulder to right hip. Her long black skirts rustling across the uneven terrain, muddying with each step, she ran down the stone steps of the training fields. Sigyn's eyes, stained with tears—a storm surge breaking the levy—upon seeing the man who had caused her fitful and sleepless night holding the war goddess flush against his chest. Despite her better intentions, she felt the dangerous _Seiður_ flowing through her veins and the accompanying black coils of smoke appeared at the hem of her dress as well as her wrists—_that's a new addition_, she mused. Tightening her fists and closing her eyes, she willed the magic within her to cease its deadly game. When she opened her eyes, Loki and Sif were no longer in what appeared to be an intimate embrace but were instead crouched low in front of each other, weapons ready and unsheathed.

…

"You cannot best me, woman." Loki moved to a low squat, one arm outstretched in front of his body, the other across his face, just below his eyes, had a palm grip on his dagger, pointed at Sif.

"The double blade I wield has bested many men twice my size. Your arrogance will be your end, dark one." Sif held her sword as a staff, close to her body, as she rocked from one foot to another, attempting to confuse the second son of Asgard.

"There are no men like me, Sif." His words were as sharp as his dagger and spoken through clenched teeth.

His eyes narrowed as his leg lunged out in front of him, bent at the knee, toes up. The sole of his foot meant to collide with her chest but she dodged the blow by falling to the side, one hand on the ground. She quickly corrected her vulnerable position, placing her other hand over her head, sword still at her hands, and flipped herself over sideways, returning to her original low stance. She made to pierce his side with the end of her sword, but he bent, his hands making contact with the ground, twisted his torso and brought a long leg down on her weapon, knocking it out of her grasp. Eyes blown wide, she arched back to retrieve her only defense. Loki didn't allow it, flipping his body—back facing her front—and pulled his knee back, foot making painful contact with her face. Blood spewed from her nose as an audible crack sounded—her cheekbone crunching under the heavy sole of his boot. Stars appeared behind her eyelids in her temporarily stunned state and she planted her feet firmly on the ground—he would not win this fight! When she opened her eyes, all she could see were two gleeful emerald eyes, laugh lines crinkled at the corners, drawn up by his manic smile. She hadn't seen it, but the blade with the serpent handle had found its home between her ribs, Loki's hand wrapped tightly around its end, palm down, little finger touching her ripped flesh. She heard the sound of her own scream—glass shattering, ear piercing—and saw him tear the dagger away, drenched in the same scarlet liquid that was now gushing from her open wound. As she drifted to unconsciousness, back arching and bending at the hip, Loki landed his hands into the dead grass, body hovering parallel to the ground, and swung both legs behind her knees, sweeping her legs out from underneath her and she crashed onto the hard ground—her spine cracking under the weight of her heavy armor.

Somewhere, far on the other end of the arena, a gut wrenching cry rose from a blond warrior and Loki ducked, knowing Mjölnir would collide with him any moment. No one had stopped the fight between the dark prince and the female warrior. He sheathed his dagger and turned to face the body of his brother, growing bigger with each step toward him.

"LOKI!" It was not the voice he'd expected—it had not come from the god of thunder hurtling toward him at full speed. The sound had been feminine—he knew it well—he'd heard it when the window shattered and it rung in his ears as his insomnia overcame him the night before. He turned to see his dark Vanir running to him, black smoke, the embodiment of her magic, swirling around her. As she neared he felt the heat—it crept upon him painfully quick and his skin suddenly felt aflame beneath the heavy leather of his garments. In horror, he gaped as the maimed near corpse of the Æsir warrior goddess lit on fire. Beautiful face twisting, terrified grey green eyes now black, Sigyn threw her hand in front of her face, the dark magic springing forth from her fingers. The mist flew twenty feet, hovering above Loki and the defeated burning woman at his feet. The smoke fell over the flames overtaking Sif's torn and broken body, snuffing the orange fire into nothingness. Loki watched, amazed—a powerful _Seiðr_ bending and moving fire before his eyes.

Thor was upon his mangled friend in an instant, pulling what was left of her wounded frame up into a tight embrace and calling for the healers. "_What have you done, Loki?! How could you?! How could you_?!"

The dark prince barely heard his brother's words. He was caught in a staring contest with Sigyn, who darted her eyes momentarily to Thor when he spoke. The heir whipped his blond head toward her and shot her a searing glare, freezing her in place.

"When she wakes—if she wakes—Eir willing!—I will send both of you so far into the depths of Hel that Odin himself won't be able to drag you back!" Arm extended, gripping Mjölnir, he flew disappeared from their sight, Sif wrapped in free arm.

Sobbing and speaking incoherently, Sigyn froze, Thor's words a broken record in her mind. _What had she done_? Jumbled and fragmented memories now, her actions tortured her with their cruelty. She recalled seeing Loki and Sif engaged in deadly battle, the silver of their sharp enchanted blades glinting in the sun. Fear had sprung up within her body—a mountaintop exploding, fiery lava spewing from its broken dome. Her imagination running wild, she'd envisioned the end of the warrior goddess' sword skewering the gut of the black-haired prince. When her vision had, thankfully, not come to fruition and instead Loki's dagger had torn into Sif's flesh as easily as a letter opener through paper, she'd praised Odin, silently hating herself for doing so. The moment Sif's body had collided with the ground, though, she'd wished _heilun töframaður _was one of magical talents—the ability to heal another would have proven more useful than the fire manipulation she possessed. It had been the sight of Thor coming at his brother, death in his eyes, that she'd realized her worst fear—_Loki dying_. She knew of Thor's love for Sif, and Loki—in his rage—had left his brother's friend, bloodied and gasping for breath, lying in the dirt at his feet. The thought of losing him at the hands of the golden prince, despite his cruelty and malicious tendencies, just when she'd found him, had nearly paralyzed her. It had been fear—soul crushing, gut wrenching, heart stopping fear that caused her stomach to fall within her small torso, and the magic had taken over. She hadn't aimed for Sif—she had just been within the damage zone and without the ability to escape, her shattered body became the unfortunate victim, succumbing to the fiery haze of Sigyn's fear and rage. Guilt wracked her body and she shook uncontrollably, as she felt the presence of a tall dark figure behind her.

She turned to face emerald eyes, hypnotizing her into an unnatural calm. She reached a trembling hand up and pushed a loose strand of his raven hair behind his ear. He closed his eyes at the contact, relishing in the heat of her small fingers gracing the cold skin stretched across his cheekbone. Daring to grasp the back of his neck, she took a step forward—not a pebble's width between them—and he bent his head toward her face. She felt his hand, fingers splayed, flat against the small of her back—her heart racing at his close proximity. He was a magnet, pulling her to him, bending her to his unkind will. Resistance was futile and she exhaled heavily as their foreheads touched. _Just breathe_, she thought, and she knew he'd heard it when he smiled in response. His hand moved up to the space between her shoulder blades as his other arm wrapped around her waist, molding her small body to the elegantly tall and lean frame that was his. Her eyelids closed, the last sight having been his parted lips moving achingly slow to her own mouth. They'd ignored the soldiers scattered throughout the arena, gawking at their open display—their desire for each other plain for all to see—and had not heard the cawing of two ravens, circling over them before flying to the palace.

"Prince Loki! Lady Sigyn!"

His head shot up, eyes wide, pulling away from what would have surely been the most passionate moment of his life, when the guards approached. Sigyn selfishly groaned at the loss before realizing the voice had been that of one of Odin's personal guard. Cautiously turning to face the yellow caped warrior addressing them, she willed herself to stand tall, not showing her terror. Surely those ravens, of who she'd been vaguely aware, had been Huginn and Muninn, Odin's personal seers and messengers. They'd told him. Of course, they had. They'd seen Sif's mangled body, Loki standing over her, dagger in his hand, her blood splattered on his leather armor. They'd seen the shell that was the female warrior's body burst into flames, the smoke having shot out of Sigyn's hand. They'd seen all of it—the Allfather's eyes when his body was not present.

"Odin demands your presence in the throne room."

They separated from each other and followed the soldier who'd spoken. Two more flanked their sides and four followed behind, swords at the ready. Sigyn looked at the dark prince stepping gracefully across the rocky terrain, head held high. _No fear_, she thought. She faced forward again, gathering the long skirts up so as not to trip over the hem. She did not see Loki looking at her, eyes suddenly moist—his hand reaching to grab the fist curled at her side. His fingers grazed the top of her hand. Head turning to look up at him, sadness written on his face, she uncurled her fingers and grasped his hand tightly. Dark clouds collided and an icy torrent of wind whipped about them as a wretched scream pierced through the storm—a red caped figure bent over, hands covering his face, on the balcony of the healing rooms.

…


End file.
